Amanda Brunker: 'It's not easy being 42 - especially when you're still 25 in your head'
Oh 42, how I hate you so.
Yes, it's my birthday. I am lucky to have made it to another year. But I'm not loving this phase of my life. I feel old. I look old. I have become a middle-aged mammy and I have no idea how it crept up on me. I used to be an "It girl", remember?
Obviously others have seen this descent, as almost all work has dried up for me.
A new breed of feisty feminists have appeared on the scene. Bloggers and Vloggers and twentysomething influencers who I've never heard of are being booked to do appearances and give comments instead of me.
I've over 40,000 followers across social media, but not one company has ever paid me for a tweet or an Instagram post. What is it I'm doing wrong?
Only yesterday I was hot and now it seems that 42 is not. It appears that I'm over the hill.
I must have lost my sex appeal and therefore no randy male bosses want to hire me anymore. Seriously, am I really too much of a geriatric for old guy producers? Oh, the shame of being middle-aged.
Don't get me wrong, I don't hate being in my 40s. Nor do I begrudge fresh blood making a name for themselves.
Though I must admit it was difficult not to be a little insulted when entertainment programmes like Xpose kept asking young wans to host their show, instead of me, over the last year.
But on reflection, I'm just too old. That's OK.
But what's not OK is that every gig is now closing for me. As a mother to two children that I'm in equal parts proud of and frustrated with, I am busy playing house.
I have become a taxi mom, a full-time chef, a cleaner - and yet I still need to earn a living too.
Though a certain group of society think I should curl up and fade away.
Has my 42-year-old external shell become too hideous for public viewing? My voice - albeit a little deeper and more cranky - no longer relevant?
Ranting aside, I wouldn't feel sorry for me. I have a beautiful home and a lovely life. I have had a good innings as they say. I just now feel a little overlooked and taken for granted.
I can't be the only fortysomething that feels this way, can I?
As the cooler kids would say, the struggle is real. Yes, pass the sick bag quick!
Maybe this sad fortysomething-feeling is exacerbated by the fact that I've no one to share my troubles with? In my 20s life was simpler. Bitching over pints on a Tuesday night was standard.
These days, sadly, everyone I know has enough worries of their own.
Instead I find myself offloading on strangers, giddy at the opportunity to speak with living, breathing humans. But then find myself over-sharing and scaring people.
The hint to stop talking only hits me when I've realised they've run off around the corner.
Maybe life would be easier if I just accepted being 42? It's not so bad really. I just wish I didn't feel 25 in my head.